


Improbable, Not Impossible

by Citation



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Vampire, First Time, Friends to Lovers, M/M, My First AO3 Post, My First Work in This Fandom, Vampire Sherlock, but my kind of vampires
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-03
Updated: 2014-03-03
Packaged: 2018-01-14 10:28:14
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 12,913
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1262884
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Citation/pseuds/Citation
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Summary: While John tries to come to terms with his feelings for Sherlock, an apparently 'boring' murder investigation and his flatmate’s strange behaviour lead him to a stunning discovery.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Improbable, Not Impossible

**Author's Note:**

> This is my first story in over two years, and I’m just SO happy my muse returned if only for a while and allowed me to write this. 
> 
> To the readers who may have read my “Reconnection” series in the NCIS fandom on FFnet, yes, I took inspiration from those stories to write this one.
> 
> To those new to my writings, I’ve to say that while I like the concept of vampires, I don’t like the whole undead thing, with no heartbeat and breathing, cold skin etc. So, I created my own kind of vampires, which I developed in a series of stories in the NCIS fandom. Then, when I discovered “Sherlock”, I thought that idea would suit this fandom too...so here I am.
> 
> Thanks so much to Wendy for the beta-ing this work!

**Improbable, Not Impossible**

 

1

It was another ordinary morning- or at least what passed for ordinary in Baker Street 221B. John was sitting on the couch, reading the newspapers and looking for interesting cases while Sherlock was in the kitchen, working on some of his never-ending series of experiments.

Now and then John would raise his eyes from the newspaper to throw a look at his flatmate, just to make sure he wasn’t doing something dangerous or somehow damaging for himself and the kitchen. Just the previous week some unidentified body part had been forgotten in the microwave and burnt to a crisp, filling the flat with a nauseous smell of burnt flesh that had lingered for days.

However, concern wasn’t the only reason pushing John to look at Sherlock. To put it simply, he enjoyed watching his flatmate work on his experiments. He liked to observe the precise, skilled movements of Sherlock’s hands, the fierce concentration on his face when he was trying to understand some result, and the satisfied smirk on his lips when one of his theories was proved right.

And sometimes, when John was totally honest with himself – as it was happening more frequently in the past months – he liked to imagine what would be like to have those long, nimble fingers explore his body, what it would be like to be the focus of that single-minded concentration and to feel those full lips against his own…

Damn!

John resolutely returned his gaze to the newspaper, hoping Sherlock had been too engrossed in his work to notice he was staring at him. Again.

 _This is getting out of hand_ , John thought, irritated with himself. He wasn’t gay! He wasn’t even bisexual. He spent years in the army, surrounded by men of every kind and he had never felt attraction toward any of them. Yet, he had stopped denying he felt something for Sherlock, something friends didn’t feel for their mates. He was attracted to his aloof, tall, pale, beautiful flatmate. He had accepted it. Problem was he had no idea of what to do.

If it was someone else, a man met at the pub or even someone he knew better, such as Mike, he would bit the bullet and make a pass at them, just to see what would happen next. But it was Sherlock. John’s best friend. The man who had rescued him from an empty, lonely existence and given him a new life full of excitement, intrigue and, most importantly, companionship. John didn’t want to jeopardize it because he had suddenly become bi-curious.

Sherlock had been very clear the only time they had talked about relationships. He was married to his work and not interested. Besides, John had no idea of what his orientation was. Sherlock had said “girlfriends were not his area”, but it didn’t mean boyfriends were. It just meant he wasn’t interested in having a girlfriend, as poor Molly Hooper could attest. In the time they had known each other, John had seen several men try and engage Sherlock in flirting and they had all be sent fleeing by some biting remark.

So John could only keep his feelings for himself and hope something would happen to put an end to his doubts, in one way or the other.

The ring of Sherlock’s phone shook John out of his musings and he turned his head to watch as Sherlock answered the call. His flatmate listened for a moment then nodded, “We are coming.”

John stood up as Sherlock put away the phone. “Lestrade?” he asked.

“There has been a murder in Regent’s Park.” Sherlock put on his coat and scarf as John reached for his jacket.

A case was just what he needed to distract his mind from his thoughts about Sherlock, and hopefully it would a complex one too.

*-*-*

Twenty minutes later John looked at the crime scene in Regent’s Park with disappointment. He had been expecting some weird circumstances or puzzling detail, but so far he couldn't see anything that warranted Sherlock’s involvement. The victim, a white male in his thirties, was lying on his back on the grass, arms stretched, and looked asleep but for the deep gash at his throat. From what Lestrade and his team were saying, it looked like a mugging ended badly; the victim’s wallet, phone and watch were all missing.

“This is just a mugging,” Anderson said with a superior tone, as Sherlock knelt near the body and examined it. “The aggressor attacked from behind, the victim resisted and the killer cut his throat. No need to involve to our favourite psychopath—oh, pardon, sociopath.”

“Wrong as usual,” Sherlock commented without looking up. He checked the gash at the throat then stood up and looked around, his eyes finally resting on a nearby iron bench. He walked to it and ran his latex-covered fingers along the metal, before sniffing them.

“What do you mean with ‘wrong’?” Anderson retorted, belligerent.

“The throat wasn’t slashed from behind; the cut was inflicted from the front, when the victim was already down. It’s obvious from the angle of the cut.”

John suppressed a smirk when Anderson deflated and looked on as Sherlock walked away from them, moving slowly as his eyes scanned the ground.

“Why kill him if he was already down?” Lestrade asked aloud. “The mugger could have just knocked him out.”

“Perhaps the killer was afraid the victim would be able to give an identikit,” John suggested. “Or maybe it was a sadist.”

“No,” came Sherlock’s muffled voice. John turned his head and saw he was kneeling near a thick bush, his face almost swallowed by the branches. “This wasn’t a mugging with murder, but a murder masked as a mugging.” He stood up holding something in his hands. Lestrade and John walked closer and saw he was holding a wallet and a phone.

“They were dropped there during the night, as they are dry and not wet as they would be if they had been dropped before the evening watering of the flowerbeds.”

Lestrade picked the wallet, opened it and pulled out an ID. It was the victim’s.

“Anthony Majors, 33. Lived in Albany Street.” He checked the wallet and John saw the money and the credits cards were still there.

“Here there is the watch too...it is gold. This most certainly wasn’t a mugging,” Sherlock commented as he gave both the phone and the watch to a sour looking Anderson.

“What can you tell me, Sherlock?” Lestrade asked with a sigh.

“Majors came from that way. He was drunk and probably used the park as a short cut toward home.”

“How can you tell he was drunk, Freak?” Sally Donavan inquired with her usual nicety.

“From his footprints, obvious.”

“Footprints? On trimmed grass?”

“Yes. I found footprints matching the victim’s shoes in that flowerbed. The grounds had been recently watered when Majors stepped on them and residues of mud stuck to his soles. He lost the mud as he walked, and the distance between his steps and their uneven direction tell me he was stumbling. The strong smell of alcohol – Glenfiddich Whisky, I believe—on the hem of his jacket sleeve and on the bench show he was so drunk he passed out lying there and it was then he was attacked and killed.”

Lestrade nodded as John felt a familiar surge of admiration for Sherlock deductions. He should be used to them by now, but his friend’s unique ability to see what the others failed to never stopped to awe him.

“We’ll start with discovering what job Majors did and if he had enemies. I’ll call you when we start the interrogations. Anything else?”

“Just an observation,” Sherlock said. “If the killer wanted to mask the murder as a mugging, why did they dropped the booty in that bush where it could be easily found?”

“Yes,” John agreed. “It was quite sloppy of them.”

“Especially for someone who was very cautious not to leave a single footprint on the wet flowerbed.”

In that moment two officers arrived carrying a stretcher and a body bag. John and the others watched in silence as they worked to remove Majors’ remains, until Sherlock suddenly exclaimed “Wait!”

The officers looked at Lestrade, who nodded, and stepped back to leave room to Sherlock, who knelt and examined the body again. John walked closer, seeing he was especially interested in the back of Majors’ shirt and black jacket. Sherlock ran his fingers over the fabric and sniffed them. Then he gestured the officers to resume their task and as soon as the body was removed, he closely observed the grass Majors had been laying on.

“What is it?” John asked bending near Sherlock.

“Blood.”

“I don’t see any,” John commented, looking around.

“Exactly.” Sherlock raised his head to look at John with a frown. “Majors had his throat slashed here, so there should be a lot of blood. Instead there isn’t and it wasn’t absorbed by his clothes or the soil. So the question is, where is it?”

*-*-*

Later that afternoon John, Sherlock, Lestrade and Donovan went to St. Bart’s pathology department to listen to the results of Anthony Majors’ autopsy performed by Dr. Hooper.

They surrounded the metal slab where the body was as Molly reported her findings. “Majors died from bleeding out,” she said looking at her notes. “There was only half a litre of blood left in him. The cause of the blood loss was a deep wound to the neck, but there is something puzzling in it.”

“What?” Sherlock and Lestrade said in unison.

“Here, let me show you.” The two men moved closer and John imitated them. Molly took a magnifier and moved it over on the victim’s throat. “Here…can you see the difference between the centre of the wound and its sides?” “The edges haven’t bled,” John answered.

Molly nodded. “The cut was inflicted post-mortem--but only to mask the wound, located straight over the jugular that caused the death. A wound that, after an accurate study, I can only describe as a bite.”

“A bite?” Lestrade exclaimed. “What kind of bite?” “I don’t know,” Molly answered, shrugging. “It’s quite confusing and well…I’ve an idea, but-” “Molly?” pressed Sherlock. “It looks like a human bite. Someone with very sharp teeth ripped this poor man’s throat apart and, apparently…drank his blood.” Molly sounded almost apologetic, as if she couldn’t quite believe what she had said and was expecting a bad reaction to her theory.

“Are you telling us he was bitten by a vampire?!” Donovan exclaimed. Sherlock scoffed and the sergeant corrected her words, “I mean, someone believing to be a vampire?”

Molly made a helpless gesture with her hands, “I don’t know. I can only tell you last week I examined the body of a homeless man found dead near Delancey Street. He sported a similar kind of wound, but the Met didn’t tell me to proceed with an autopsy as they ruled out the murder as the result of a fight between homeless people.”

“Uhm...” Lestrade muttered. “Anything else?”

“Not much. The killer was very careful not to leave any trace on the victim. I can only add Majors was very drunk. His blood alcohol concentration was 1.4, strong enough to cause confusion, disorientation and loss of balance.”

Sherlock smirked slightly, as it confirmed what he had already observed on the crime scene.

“He had just attended the stag night with some co-workers. They confirmed he drank a lot,” Lestrade commented. “He worked for a consulting firm in the City. We are going back to ask more questions. Sherlock, do you want to come with us?”

John was expecting a positive answer, as the case sounded rather intriguing, and thus was surprised when Sherlock shook his head.

“No. I left one of my experiments unattended for far too long. John, let’s go.”

Sherlock turned on his heels and left the room in a whirl of dark coat and blue scarf and John could only make a helpless gesture to the perplexed Lestrade before rushing out to catch up with his friend’s long legs and quick strides.

*-*-*

In the taxi on the way home, Sherlock was silent, lost in deep thought, so John didn’t ask him any questions. He contented himself with throwing looks at his friend, until he realized he was behaving just like Molly had done shortly before.

Poor Molly, with her long, unrequited crush and her devotion to Sherlock. John wondered if he too was destined to such a life. It wasn’t an attractive prospect. Maybe it would be best for him if he found another place to live, but his heart clenched at the idea of leaving Sherlock. He was sure his friend wouldn’t take it well, and it could ruin their friendship as much as making a pass at him.

Maybe, just maybe John should really tell Sherlock how he felt. Even if it most certainly wouldn’t end as he hoped, there was a good chance their friendship wouldn’t turn too awkward. Sherlock would probably dismiss the whole matter as useless “sentiment”, not mention it again, and would continue to treat John as nothing had happened.

And John? Would be he be able to go on just being friends after such a confession? Maybe, knowing for sure there was no hope for something more would help him to get over his...feelings...for Sherlock and start looking for someone else.

John’s musings were interrupted when Sherlock suddenly ordered the taxi to pull over. He frowned as his friend opened the door even before the care came to a full stop, and walked quickly along the sidewalk, until he reached a young beggar asking for money near a corner.

John watched as the two men talked for a while, then Sherlock took out his wallet and gave some money to the beggar. Then he calmly returned to the taxi and climbed on.

“A member of your homeless network?” John asked.

“Yes.”

“What did you ask him to do?”

Sherlock turned to look at him. “It was about what Molly said about the homeless man found dead with a wound similar to Majors’. I want to know more about it and to see if there have been other attacks against the homeless.”

“And you asked because...?”

“Because I’ve an idea. It crossed my mind that drunk and slumped on a bench in a park, Majors could have been easily mistaken for a homeless passing the night there. I thought it was a possible lead, worth a check.”

John nodded, not sure what ‘lead’ Sherlock was thinking of, but any other question he might have was silenced when his friend turned to look out the window, lost again in his thoughts.

2

The next day was quiet and spent entirely inside the flat. Lestrade called early in the morning telling they had a possible suspect for Majors’ murder and inviting them to the Yard, but Sherlock declined, once again claiming he had experiments to attend to.

However, as soon as the call had ended, he threw himself on the couch, took his thinking pose with his hands steepled under his chin and closed his eyes. He didn’t say a single word until late afternoon, when he asked John to prepare some tea.

By now John was used to Sherlock’s moods and behaviours, but he was surprised his friend had not wanted to witness the suspect’s interrogation.

In the evening, just as John was eating dinner, the door bell rang and it was like a lighting had hit Sherlock. He jumped down the couch and ran down the stairs in a blur of blue dressing gown and bare feet.

Tensing his ears John heard indistinct talking, then the door closed and Sherlock climbed back at a more sedate pace.

When he entered the sitting room he was holding several pieces of paper of different sizes and colours. Some looked like pieces of cardboard ripped from a box, other looked like newspaper pages or dirty flyers.

Sherlock sat on the couch and spread them on the coffee table, looking like he was trying to put some order in them.

“The homeless network’s reports?” John guessed.

“Yes,” Sherlock answered distractedly as his eyes danced from a piece of paper to the other.

“Anything interesting?”

“Too soon to tell. Some of these writings look like the track left from a spider fallen in a pot of ink. It may take time to understand what they say.”

“Then I guess you’ll be busy for the rest of the evening. I hope you don’t mind if I watch telly.”

Sherlock smiled slightly and shook his head. “Have fun, John.”

“You too, Sherlock. You too.”

*-*-*

The following day it was like Sherlock had never heard of Anthony Majors’ murder. He returned to his experiments and classified two more types of tobacco ashes; then he updated his site to let the world know about this great accomplishment. He never mentioned the contents of the homeless network’s reports, which John couldn’t see anywhere. John thought it was because Sherlock’s theory had been disproved and didn’t think much of it—although, in the back of his mind, he found strange his friend would let the matter drop like that. The man was like a blood hound when he sniffed a mystery and it was so unlike of him to let it go.

 

The day after was even stranger, as Sherlock spent most of it sleeping on the couch or in his bedroom. And the same happened the next day.

John was used to Sherlock’s peculiar habits, to the days of silence, the lack of eating and the violin music in the middle of the night—but this was new. It was like Sherlock had fallen in hibernation.

“Are you feeling all right?” John asked in a rare moment Sherlock was awake and, blessedly, eating something.

“Yes. I’m perfectly fine. Just resting.”

“Well, you’ve been ‘resting’ a lot in these days. Are you planning to continue doing so for long?”

“As long as I need to,” Sherlock answered, finishing his meal and walking to his bedroom, leaving John to wash the dirty dish and cutlery.

Well, at least that hadn’t changed.

 

The following morning John woke up around 5am to go to the bathroom. Afterward, as he was starting to doze off again, he heard a slight noise. It sounded like the front door opening and closing. Was Sherlock going out?

Sleep crept over him, and John didn’t think about it until later in the morning when, seeing Sherlock was currently awake, he asked, “Did you go out at sunrise? Around 5am? I heard the front door open.”

Sherlock frowned and looked puzzled. “Why should I go out at such uncivilized hour? And to do what?”

“You tell me.”

“I can’t, as I didn’t leave the flat. You must have imagined it.” That said, Sherlock closed his eyes and went to sleep.

John stared at his flatmate for a while. Sherlock had sounded sincere when he claimed he had not gone out, but he wasn’t convinced. He was sure he had heard the door opening and closing and he could imagine Mrs. Hudson would go out at such hour.

 

That same evening John was in his bedroom, engrossed in a book. He had retired at his usual time, but since sleep failed to come, he had picked up a mystery novel Sarah had lent him. The story had proved to be more engaging than he thought and instead of making him sleepy – as reading in bed usually did – he had made him even more awake.

That was why he heard the noise of someone going down the stairs, followed by the front door opening and closing.

John put down the book and threw back the covers. This time he was sure he had not imagined it, but still he wanted to check. Putting on his robe, he trotted down the stairs and entered the sitting room. Empty. He went to Sherlock’s bedroom and opened it. Empty.

So Sherlock had gone out at...what time was it? John checked his watch. Midnight. Where had he gone? Why at such hour? And why hadn’t he said anything to John?

 

When John woke up the next morning, it was already 10am, but since it was Saturday and he didn’t have to go to the clinic, oversleeping wasn’t a problem.

He had stayed up till 4am, waiting for Sherlock to come back so he could give him a piece of his mind, but when keeping his eyes open had become a losing battle, he had decided to go to bed. Sleeping on the armchair or couch was bad for his shoulder and he didn’t want to be sore for the whole day because of Sherlock bloody Holmes.

John put on his robe and marched down the stairs, ready to pretend an explanation from his flatmate, but he came to a sudden halt when he stepped in the sitting room.

Sherlock was on the couch, asleep. But contrary to usual, he wasn’t curled facing the back of the couch, but laying on his back. He was wearing a pair of pyjama bottoms and his blue dressing gown. His _open_ dressing gown.

For the first time since starting to live with the man, John was able to glimpse some bare skin other than Sherlock’s face, long neck, hands and feet. Sherlock was always dressed when he came out of his bedroom or the bathroom, even if sometimes “dressed” just meant wearing a bed sheet tightly wrapped around his tall frame.

John’s eyes roved over the expanse of pale skin of Sherlock’s chest. He has some chest hair and had a surprising muscle definition, sleek and lean like a feline’s. His nipples were flat and just begging to be touched and licked. John’s hand itched with the desire to touch that skin, to feel if it was as soft as it looked. His fingers reached out almost of their volition...just a touch, he thought almost in trance...a brief one and-

Sherlock shifted in his sleep, turning slightly on his left side, and John retracted his hand as if he had been burnt.

What the hell was he doing? Molesting his friend as he slept? John blushed to the root of his hair as he realized he was hard. His shame was overwhelming. God, he really had to get a grip on himself. What would happen if Sherlock awoke? Those keen eyes saw everything, noticed everything and how could John justify sporting a hard-on while looking at his half naked flatmate?

John walked to the bathroom, disrobed and went into the shower, turning on the cold water. The chilly jet killed his arousal and he switched to the hot water to wash himself.

He needed to do something about the situation, which meant talking to Sherlock about his feelings or finding a way to will them away. Maybe he could go out, spend an evening at the pub and charm a willing woman to have a shag with him. He usually didn’t go for one night stands, but needs must and he had not got laid in months. It was really difficult to find and keep a girlfriend when Sherlock’s work and demands ruined plans and dates four times out of five. He would need to make do with a casual encounter and maybe, when he would not be as sexually frustrated, he would stop lusting after his very male best friend.

Making his mind and having a plan calmed John, but he remained so embarrassed and off kilter for the whole day that he didn’t confront Sherlock about the previous night escapade. But he didn’t forget the episode and by evening he had formulated a plan of action.

“I’m going to the pub,” he said to Sherlock, who was awake and eating a sandwich. “There is match on telly. I’ll probably be home late, so goodnight if you to bed before I get back.”

Sherlock just nodded as he had his mouth full.

John put on his dark jacket and left the flat. Once in the street he didn’t walk to the pub, but entered inside “Speedy’s” to buy a strong, hot coffee. He then crossed the street and hid behind a parked van, from where he had a good visual of 221B door. To avoid the suspicion of the passerby, he often looked at his watch and paced back and forth, to give the impression he was waiting for someone. It wasn’t far from the truth, as he was waiting for Sherlock to come out so he could follow him. He was not sure his friend would go out this night too, but he was hopeful and willing to wait for a long time if necessary.

About an hour later 221B door opened and a familiar tall figure stepped on the sidewalk. John’s eyes almost bulged as he took in Sherlock’s appearance. His usually – at least outdoor—meticulously groomed friend was dressed in a way John had never seen before. A pair of baggy, shapeless grey sweatpants too big for him, hanging low on his hips and with the legs hems touching the ground. A dirty and stained light brown jacket that had seen better days and a jumper of indescribable colour with a torn neck hem. His hair was even more unruly than usual and his face...well, it looked like he had just cleaned a chimney, it was so dirty.

As soon as John’s surprise vanished, he realized Sherlock had disguised himself as a homeless man, and a drunk one too by the way he walked.

John gave Sherlock some advantage while keeping him in sight, then crossed the street and started following him, using all the tricks Sherlock himself had taught him to avoid being spotted.

A strong wind had started to blow as he had been waiting and John raised the collar of his jacket to stave off the cold as he continued to tail Sherlock. A loud crash coming from his right made him turn his head and he saw the wind had just thrown down a parked scooter. When John returned to look forward he noticed Sherlock was no longer in sight.

“Damn!” he said under his breath, as he ran along the sidewalk looking right and left. There was no sight of Sherlock. He had lost him.

Cursing again, John was about to retrace his steps and go home when an arm suddenly sized him by the collar and pulled him in a narrow, dark alley.

John raised his fists to hit his attacker when a familiar voice said, “That was quite sloppy of you, John.”

“Hell, Sherlock. You almost gave me a heart attack!” John exclaimed in relief. Then coughed as a strong stench of alcohol enveloped him. “What the f- Did you bathe in alcohol?!”

Sherlock released him, “It was just a bottle, and don’t worry, it wasn’t the whisky Lestrade gave you at Christmas, but the cheapest gin I could find. Now, why are you tailing me?”

“Why are you going out at night dressed like that?” John retorted.

“I’m following a lead about Major’s murder.”

“Uh?”

“The killer attacked Majors because he thought he was a homeless sleeping in the park. He hunts homeless people knowing the police won’t investigate much if one of them turns up dead.”

“That doesn’t explain why you are going out at night.”

“To spring a trap. Obvious.”

“It doesn’t seem obvious to me. You told Lestrade Majors’ wasn’t killed in a mugging. So if the murder wasn’t accidental, why should the killer go after you?” John asked confused.

“I just told you. Majors was killed because he was mistaken for a homeless and my network’s report confirmed my early hypothesis. There have been four murders among the homeless community in the past 50 days, five if we include Majors’. There is someone preying on homeless people and according to my calculations he should strike again soon. Maybe as soon as tonight or tomorrow,” Sherlock explained with a bored tone, as if he thought John was taking too long to understand.

“Preying on homeless? You mean there is a serial killer?”

“You could call him so, yes. When he realized Major’s wasn’t a homeless, the killer understood he had made a mistake. So it made it look as a mugging...but still it wasn’t right. A City consultant killed in Regent’s Park would cause a lot of stir. People would demand more surveillance in the park and nearby streets. There would be more patrols around and our killer doesn’t want that. So what does he do? He drops the things he took from Majors’ in a place where they will be easily found. The police will be led to think the mugging was just cover for murder and focus the investigation in another direction, leaving the killer free to hunt in his favourite area.”

“And you are going after such a man alone? Without back-up?!” John was by now seeing red with anger. Of all the stupid things Sherlock had done...”Why the hell didn’t you tell me?”

“Because it is dangerous.”

Sherlock’s calm tone made John even angrier and he almost shouted as he grabbed the younger man by the shoulders, “Of course it is! Do you think it is a good reason to keep me in the dark? Do you remember what it almost happened with that cabbie and his damn pill? Why the hell do you insist in risking your life just to prove you are cleverer than the others?” He paused to take a breath and continued in a cold yet impassioned tone, “Do you ever stop a minute to consider what your death would do to Mrs. Hudson? To Lestrade? To me?”

Sherlock looked away and didn’t reply.

“Of course you would never think of it. It’s just useless “sentiment”...” John let go of his shoulders, suddenly feeling exhausted and defeated. Whatever vague hopes he may have entertained to have a deeper relationship with Sherlock were shattered by the awareness the other man couldn’t grasp even the most basic meaning of caring for other people.

“I’m going home now,” he said softly, not looking at Sherlock’s face. “Try not to get yourself killed.”

John left the alley, slowly walking back toward the flat. His eyes were moist with the tears he refused to let fall.

He had almost reached 221B door when he heard running steps behind him. A moment later a deep voice murmured, “I know what my death would do to you, John. But I also know what your death would do to me—and I find that perspective far worse.”

John stopped walking and said without turning, “That’s very selfish.”

“Undoubtedly, but I can’t bear the idea of you going anywhere near that killer.”

John finally turned to met Sherlock’s face. He had felt the emotion in that usually cold voice, had felt his raw concern for his safety and his heart had rejoiced. Sherlock _cared_.

“Sherlock,” he said quietly. “I was in the army. I fought Taliban and terrorists; I know how to defend myself and this isn’t the first serial killer we faced.”

Sherlock looked briefly away and frowned; it seemed like he was considering something. Then, his decision made, he turned to face John and replied, “You’re right, but this is the first vampire we meet and neither your gun nor your training will protect you from him.”

That said, Sherlock walked the final steps to the door of their home and unlocked it.

John’s eyes widened and he remained still for a moment, before he caught up with Sherlock. “Vampire? Did you really say that?!” he exclaimed.

“Try not to let the whole street hear you,” Sherlock hissed as he stepped aside to let John enter the hall before him.

“You’re joking, aren’t you? I mean, you wanted to say there is a vampire wannabe killing homeless.”

“There are no ‘wannabes’ here,” Sherlock almost snarled as he slammed the door shut. “I wish they were, but this is the real thing.”

Sherlock climbed up the stairs and John followed him, his mind in turmoil. His friend sounded so serious, but really vampires didn’t exist and it was impossible as a scientific mind as Sherlock’s could believe otherwise.

Once in the living room, Sherlock closed the door and after pacing back and forth a couple of times, he stopped in front of John and said, “Vampires do exist, John—although they are far different from the creatures described by Bram Stoker and his successors.”

John frowned and looked closely at Sherlock’s face and eyes, wondering if he had taken something before leaving the flat.

Sherlock of course noticed and growled irritated, “I’m not high! I’m perfectly sober and telling the truth. _Vampires do exist_. They aren’t the work of someone’s overactive imagination. They have existed since mankind began, a branch of the _Homo sapiens_ that somehow evolved differently from the main strain. The real vampires aren’t the creatures portrayed in books and movies. None of that idiotic stuff about garlic, cross, holy water, mirrors and sunlight is true. They are immortal and the only thing that can kill them is another vampire… More importantly,” he continued, looking straight at John, “even if vampires are born predators, we’ve evolved and have learned to control those urges along the centuries and we no longer go around killing people to drink their blood. We eat as humans do and human blood is no longer our only source of substance. We still need it in small doses for our good health, and in greater quantities to stay young, rejuvenate or to heal from serious injuries that otherwise would leave us crippled. But we don’t kill or harm our donors. In my case, I don’t even feed from people, but I drink only from blood bags. However, in some rare instance, vampires become killers, and it’s one of them that murdered Anthony Majors’ and the other four homeless people in this area.”

Silence fell over them as John tried to process what he had just heard. He couldn’t make any sense of it and his logical mind rebelled to the idea vampires could exist and that Sherlock – rational, calculating, no-nonsense Sherlock – could believe he was one of them. He was about to ask again to his friend if he was sure to be all right when he noticed something odd in his mouth.

The tips of something long and white could be seen against his full lips.

Sherlock was sporting fangs. John closed his eyes, rubbed them and opened them again.

No change, the long pointed canines were still there, giving Sherlock a feral, dangerous look. Without intending to do so, John took a step back and watched as some of the light died in Sherlock’s eyes. They looked at each other for a while longer, then Sherlock moved past John and walked to the door. He already had a hand on the knob when he turned around and said flatly, “This is what I am, John. I never planned to show you, but tonight’s events forced my hand. I’ll understand if it too much for you. You are free to leave, of course. Also, if you want, I can erase your memory, and make you forget everything you heard and saw tonight. I swear I’ll never approach you again as a vampire. You don’t have to fear me.” 

“I don’t fear you…well, sometime I do when your do something stupid as shooting at the wall or prance around the flat with a harpoon but…” John laughed nervously, almost hysterically, but a quick glance to his left hand revealed it was steady and still. He took a deep breath and continued with a slightly uncertain voice. “This is a lot to take in, Sherlock. I need time to think about it and sort my thoughts out.” 

Sherlock nodded. “I guessed so. That’s why I’m going out. I’ve a killer to hunt and you need some time alone.” His fangs had retracted and he looked again as the man John had known for the past year. But he wasn’t – he was a vampire for God’s sake!--and John caught himself breathe in relief when Sherlock walked out of the room and left him alone.

John stared at the closed door for a couple of minutes, then walked slowly to his armchair and sat down heavily. He closed his eyes and used the breathing technique Ella had thought him to calm down and clear his thoughts after one of his nightmares. He breathed in and out at a slow rhythm, trying to put some order in his jumbled thoughts and emotions.

He was so stunned. So shocked by what had heard and see he could barely wrap his mind around it.

Vampires existed for real and Sherlock was one of them. It was a mind-blowing revelation, almost impossible to believe.

He had always believed the tales about blood-sucking creatures on which Bram Stoker had based his novel ‘Dracula’ had originated from people suffering from a rare condition called Porphyria. People with this illness could suffer of severe photosensitivity with erythema, psychiatric disorders causing strange behaviours, and blisters and necrosis of the gums, which made their teeth look longer. It was easy to guess what a fear such symptoms could have caused in ancient times.

Scientists had always claimed that was the origin on the vampire legends—and why should they have thought differently? If the vampires’ real existence was still unknown in 2013, it meant they were very good at covering their tracks and protecting their secret.

John suddenly wondering if he had met some of them in his life, maybe at the uni or in the army...The army where he had trusted his life in the hands of his companions, counting on them to keep him safe. Would have he trusted them had he known there might have been a vampire among them?

He pushed the thought away. It was useless to speculate on what he couldn’t know. He had to focus on Sherlock.

Sherlock who had revealed him a secret that could shake the foundations of mankind with the knowledge there were immortal beings looking completely human walking among them.

Sherlock who had told him he was a predator but drank from blood bags as if it was the most natural thing in the world.

Sherlock who had offered to wipe his memory and make him forget everything had happened that night...

It was a nice, easy option. John would return to believe vampires were on fantasy creatures and the upsetting feeling of having the ground collapse under his feet would disappear.

However, John realized with surprise he was strangely reluctant to ask for it—and it wasn’t because he was afraid of what the procedure would entail. It was because he had the gut feeling he was the first person Sherlock had revealed his secret to and it had been an important move for him.

John knew Sherlock could have easily avoided telling him the truth. When John had walked away from the confrontation in the alley, Sherlock could have returned to his hunt as nothing had happened. Instead had run after John and told – and shown – him the truth.

He had wanted John to know—and it was an incredible show of trust on Sherlock’s part.

John sat up straighter as his heartbeat quickened.

Trust was the key.

It had always been.

Sherlock had trusted John—and John trusted Sherlock.

He had instinctively trusted him from the first moment they had met.

Otherwise, why would he have accepted to go flat-looking with him after their weird first meeting? “ _I have left riding crop in the mortuary_ ”...that sentence alone would have scared away more than one person. And more: why would he have refused the money a man he had believed to be a criminal – a man who had kidnapped him in an isolated power plant, for God’s sake! -- had offered him to spy on Sherlock, when he was almost broke? Why would he have ignored Sally Donovan’s – a police sergeant, mind you – warnings about Sherlock? More importantly, why he would have killed a man to save Sherlock’s life less than 36 hours after meeting him?

As Mycroft had commented back then, for a man with trust issues, he had trusted Sherlock very fast.

John’s breath caught when he realized, with a mix of surprise, satisfaction and relief, that it hadn’t changed.

Sherlock was still the Sherlock he had always trusted: genius, self-proclaimed sociopath and the best man John had ever met.

It was already sunrise when this monumental realization stuck and John felt almost giddy with joy. He couldn’t wait for Sherlock get home, so he could tell him.

He wanted to clasp the man by his shoulders, tell him he was sorry for having been afraid of him. That he knew Sherlock wouldn’t hurt him nor go around hurting other people.

Then there were all the questions he wanted to ask...Could humans be turned in vampires? Did Sherlock ever analyze his own blood? Of course he must have done it, he was Sherlock Holmes! What did he find? How had he planned to erase John’s memory? Were there other vamp-

John never completed that thought as the drop of his adrenaline levels after so much excitement left him exhausted. He fell asleep on his armchair unmindful of his bad shoulder and with a slight smile on his lips.

3

Sherlock didn’t return home the next day, but John wasn’t worried. He thought his friend was giving him time to think, so he went on with his life as usual. He slept late, dealt with his sore shoulder and went to the clinic for an afternoon shift. Later he went to the pub with Mike Stanford and another one of their course mates, who was in London for a conference. It was an enjoyable night and he fell asleep as soon as his head hit the pillow.

When John woke up the following morning, the flat was still empty and, as the day progressed, be began to worry.

What if something had happened to Sherlock? What if the other vampire had attacked him? He guessed it was exactly what Sherlock had hoped when he had disguised himself as a homeless, but what if things hadn’t gone as planned?

By the time darkness fell again, John made a decision: if Sherlock wasn’t home by the morning, he would alert both Lestrade and Mycroft about his disappearance. Sherlock would probably resent it, but an angry flat mate was better than a dead one.

 

Later that night, John was dozing on the couch – he had been too worried to go to bed- when he heard the front door open. He quickly stood up, wincing as his shoulder rebelled at the sudden move and waited for Sherlock to make his entry in the flat.

When the man failed to appear, John walked to the top of the stairs and looked down: Sherlock was huddled against the wall near the door and his harsh breathing was filling the hall.

“God,” John exclaimed, running down the stairs, “what happened?”

He knelt near Sherlock in the dim light and saw how unnaturally pale his face was. Then he noticed the hand Sherlock was pressing against his neck; it was covered by a dark, thick, viscous liquid.

 _Blood,_ John realized with a shiver. So much blood, slipping between his friend’s fingers and dripping on the carpet.

“Can you stand?” he asked Sherlock. “I need to examine you and it’s too dark here.”

Sherlock nodded and, with the help of John’s arms around his waist, stood up and slowly climbed up the stairs.

However, all of his strength left him as soon as the stepped in the living room. His knees buckled and only John’s arms prevented him from falling face first on the floor. As it was, John lowered him gently on the carpet, made him comfortable and said softly, “Keep pressing on the wound. I’m calling an ambulance.”

He straightened and reached for his phone, but Sherlock’s left hand wrapped around his ankle, stopping him.

“No hospital...they can’t help me. Call Mycroft...” Sherlock’s voice died in a whisper as the grip on his ankle loosened.

John looked torn at his friend. His doctor’s instinct told him to call the ambulance, but what he really knew about vampire physiology? Trusting Sherlock to know what was best for him at least in this circumstance, he dialled Mycroft’s number.

The voice that answered him sounded very alert considering it was 2am and people were usually sleeping at that time.

“Dr. Watson,” Mycroft said, the tension in his voice evident, “has something happened to my brother?”

“Yes...he has been wounded to his neck. I don’t know with what, but he is losing a lot of blood and he is barely conscious. I wanted to take him to the hospital, but he said they can’t help him and to call you,” John explained running a hand in his hair as he looked at still form of his friend.

“Dear God,” Mycroft exclaimed with a tone John had never heard. “Don’t let him lose consciousness, John. I’ll arrive as soon as I can.”

The call ended, John threw the phone on the armchair and knelt at Sherlock’s side. Pulling out a handkerchief, he pressed it and his right hand atop of Sherlock’s, trying to stave off the blood flow.

“Help is coming,” he said softly and Sherlock nodded slightly. His brown was covered with cold sweat and his breathing was getting more laboured by the moment as his eyes started to close.

_“_ _The only thing that can kill them is another vampire…”_

The line uttered by Sherlock a few days ago flashed into John’s mind, filling him with horror as he realized what was happening.

Sherlock was dying, bleeding out.

“Hold on, Sherlock!” he urged, slapping the clammy cheeks gently. “Mycroft will be here soon.”

“Not…think I can wait…much longer…” Sherlock whispered.

“Don’t say it,” John chided him. “You’re strong, Sherlock…and too stubborn to let go.”

“Should…have told you…” Sherlock mumbled.

“What?” John asked, trying to keep Sherlock talking.

“How…I…feel…” Sherlock looked up at John with a strange expression. “Now…too... late.”

“No,” John shook his head, as his left hand wrapped around Sherlock’s cold one. “It’s not too late. Tell me. Tell me now.”

Sherlock pale eyes locked with his and his fingers weakly squeezed John’s hand.

“I…love…you…” he tried to smile, but never completed the gesture as his body went completely limp and his eyes closed.

"No!!" John shouted, searching frantically for a pulse. It was still there but far too weak. “You can’t do this to me Sherlock,” he babbled in a broken voice as his tears started to fall. “You can’t tell me that and then die…You can’t…”

The front door slammed open and John raised his eyes, his hopes surging “Quick, Mycroft, we are losing him!” he shouted.

A moment later Mycroft knelt at Sherlock’s other side with a plastic bag.

“We must act fast,” Mycroft said, pulling out a pair of scissors and a blood bag. “Keep his mouth open as I pour this into it.”

John didn’t need to be told twice. He used his fingers to pry open Sherlock’s jaws as Mycroft cut a corner from the blood bag and then dripped its content in his brother’s mouth.

John watched, his eyes moving from Sherlock’s still face to Mycroft worried one and back to Sherlock's, as the blood kept dripping in the slack, unresponsive mouth.

An imprecise time and three blood bags later, Mycroft’s tense expression relaxed as he pressed two fingers against his brother’s neck. "The pulse is stronger," he said.

"Is he going to be all right?" John asked, still concerned.

Mycroft nodded, "Yes. He'll be fine. We were just in time." He gestured John to let Sherlock’s mouth close and then turned his brother’s head on the side. “Look, the wound has stopped bleeding.”

John let out a relieved breath and smiled a Mycroft, who replied in kind. “We should take him to bed and get him out of these dirty clothes,” he suggested. Mycroft nodded and stood up.

Together the two men moved Sherlock to his bedroom and lowered him on the mattress. Mycroft rapidity and efficiency stripped his unconscious brother of his blood-soaked clothes and shoes, leaving him clad only in his boxers briefs and t-shirt. That done, John covered Sherlock with a blanket and checked his pulse and eyes. Satisfied with his findings - his friend was just sleeping – he followed Mycroft into the kitchen

“I’m having a whisky,” he said, opening a cabinet. “Do you want one too?”

“Yes John, thank you.” Mycroft answered as he dumped Sherlock’s bloody clothes in the laundry basket by the corner.

John poured a generous amount of liquor in two glasses, gave one to Mycroft and then moved to sit on his armchair, silently inviting the other man to use Sherlock’s.

They sipped the drinks in silence and, now that the danger was over, John had to fight a smirk when he saw that always-impeccably-dressed Mycroft was wearing only a set of grey sweats, the kind of clothes John had never thought to ever see on him.

Mycroft put down his glass after a while and asked, “Do you know what happened to Sherlock?”

John told him everything that had happened since the discovery of Anthony Majors’ body, including Sherlock’s revelation about vampires and his own nature.

Mycroft listened intently, then asked, “Did he mention if the other vampire is still alive or where he found him?”

“No. He had barely the strength to tell me to call you,” John answered. Sherlock had said much more, of course, that that had been meant for his ears only.

Sherlock loved him.

It was as a stunning revelation as Sherlock’s being a vampire, and John repeated it in his mind until Mycroft’s voice intruded into his thoughts.

“I suppose you have questions too, John. Feel free to ask everything you want pertaining Sherlock’s nature and what happened this night,” he older man said with a kind smile.

Thinking it would be probably his only one occasion to grill Mycroft and well, being curious about everything regarding Sherlock, John didn’t hesitate. Although his first question was about Mycroft himself.

“Are you a vampire too?”

Mycroft shook his head. “No. Otherwise I would have used my blood to heal Sherlock. It would have acted faster.”

“Oh. So how do you know Sherlock is one and what you had to do? Did he told you he was turned or-“John didn’t complete the sentence as Mycroft laughed. “What?” he asked, a tad irritated.

“Forgive me, John. Let’s chalk it to tonight stress and the alcohol.” Mycroft recomposed himself and continued. “Vampires aren’t made; they’re born. Our father was a vampire and Sherlock inherited his nature.”

“But you didn’t?”

“No. The union between a vampire and a human has only a 1 chance out of 50 to give birth to a vampire. Sherlock was the first vampire child Father had sired in his 300-year-long life.”

“He must have been overjoyed,” John commented.

“He was. Mummy instead wasn’t. She would have preferred another human child. I suppose she was concerned about the life Sherlock would have to face: the secrets, the loneliness and the heartbreak of surviving all his loved ones,” Mycroft replied before sipping from his glass.

“The natural concerns of a mother, I guess.”

“Indeed. Anyway, Sherlock’s childhood was the same of any human child. His vampire nature wouldn’t awake till puberty and while Father told him he was different and explained to him some things, Sherlock was too young to truly understand them. Father also taught me about his kind, so I could be able to teach them to Sherlock should something happen to him—as it tragically happened.” Mycroft sighed.

“How?”

“When Sherlock was ten, an old vampire enemy of Father broke into our house. He had discovered Sherlock’s existence and wanted to kill him as revenge against Father. Father arrived in time to stop him, and there was a terrible fight. Father managed to kill the attacker, but was mortally wounded. Before dying, he asked me to look after Sherlock—which I’ve been trying to do since then, although not always with good results.” Mycroft smiled weakly.

John nodded in understanding. The older Holmes’s intromissions in his brother’s life were not, as he had always thought, attempts to control Sherlock and make him behave in a way Mycroft approved of. They were a man’s desire to fulfil his dying father’s last request, coupled with a great affection for Sherlock—although Mycroft would probably downplay it.

“It must have not be easy,” John commented.

Mycroft shook his head. “It wasn’t. Father’s death caused a radical change in Sherlock. He thought it was his fault if Father had died. He closed up, became more solitary and rebellious, prone to temper tantrums. He started to antagonize me in every way, resentful of my being human. Mummy didn’t help the situation as she became…well, there is no other way to put it…afraid of Sherlock.”

John’s eyes widened. “She became afraid of her own child?”

“Of his vampire nature. Of what he would become without someone to teach him how to control his instincts. Vampires are faster and stronger than humans, and Sherlock’s temper tantrums were quite bad; Mummy was afraid of what would happen if he had them as a mature vampire. So she sent Sherlock to a very strict boarding school, where she hoped he would learn to control himself. It only served to make Sherlock more rebellious and more unconcerned about was deemed “appropriate” and “socially acceptable”. Mycroft sighed again and continued. “During the summer of his 15th year, Sherlock matured as a vampire. Mummy home schooled him until he learned to cope with the change, which happened quite fast. In fact, aside from the blood bags now stored in his bedroom, nothing would indicate he wasn’t a normal teenager. There was even an improvement in his temper. He was calmer, less resentful against me, more relaxed. Both he and Mummy were happier, now that the dreaded moment had come and gone without any tragic result, and I too felt as I could stop worrying.”

“But?” John prodded, as he sensed there was a ‘but’ coming.

“But it didn’t last for long. When Sherlock was 19 and home from school, he fell in love with an American girl who had come to spend the summer with some relatives in the nearby town. They were inseparable and things progressed to their natural end: they were intimate—and something went terribly wrong.” Mycroft made a hopeless gesture with his hand. “I don’t know what happened as Sherlock never told me, but my best guess is his vampire instincts surfaced during the act and he bit or tried to bite his partner. Whatever the reason, he broke up with the girl and sworn off love and closeness with other people. He returned to his rebellious ways and, in time, turned to drugs. He told me it was to combat boredom, but I believe they also dulled his instincts. He overdosed twice, which meant falling into a coma he could not be roused from until I made him drink blood—another thing he resented me for. Later on, he started helping the police, and there was some improvement. Then, of course, he met you, John.” Mycroft looked straight at him, his eyes strangely bright. “You provided my brother with the steady influence and complete acceptance I could never give him, and for that I will always be in your debt.”

John lowered his eyes, embarrassed. “I don’t know what to say.”

“There is nothing to say. Just stay near my brother.” Mycroft smiled and stood up. “Time for me to go home as I have an early meeting in the morning. Sherlock should wake up soon and I’m sure he would appreciate if he could talk with you in private. Don’t hesitate to call me should you need anything.”

John accompanied the other man to the door, “Of course, Mycroft—and thank you for the talk.”

Mycroft waved his thanks away with a hand and walked down the stairs. As soon as the front door closed, John went to Sherlock’s bedroom and pushed the door open, looking at his sleeping friend.

What Mycroft had told him about Sherlock’s childhood after his father’s death had touched him deeply. Poor child, left alone without a guide, with a mother than instead of comforting him pushed him away, and a brother that, while trying to help, couldn’t really understand him. As John saw it, it was almost a miracle Sherlock hadn’t turned into the monster his family was afraid he would become. It was a testament to his inner strength and John felt a surge of love for the younger man. He silently vowed that if Sherlock would allow it, he would show him all the love and care he hadn’t received until then.

Sherlock shifted and groaned, his eyes opening. John walked closer to the bed, so that they could look at each other without strain for Sherlock.

“John?” Sherlock whispered.

“Yes?” John answered, studying his friend’s face. He looked much batter, and the look in his eyes was becoming less confused and more intent with each passing second.

“Is Mycroft still here?”

“No, he left about five minutes ago. He said to call him if you need something.”

“Uh.” Sherlock pushed himself to a sitting position, his back supported by headboard. “Did you talk about me?”

“It was rather inevitable given the circumstance, don’t you think?” John commented, sitting on the edge of the mattress.

“I suppose.” Sherlock tilted his head, studying him. “You seem very at ease.”

“Because I am.” John smiled briefly before sobering again. “I did a lot of thinking in these days and in the end I came to the conclusion it doesn’t really matter what you are. You are still Sherlock, my crazy flat mate and best friend.”

Sherlock flashed him a broad smile and sat more relaxed. John scooted a bit closer and asked, “What happened tonight?”

“As my plan to lure the killer out wasn’t working, I decided to force his hands. With my network’s help, I spread word in the homeless community to always stay in groups during the night. I told them to report me if the saw an unknown individual wander around the shelters or try to get some of them go with him with some excuse. This evening I got word such an individual had been spotted near Embankment tube station. So I went there, and stumbled drunkenly along the embankment. My mark didn’t realize I was a vampire as the alcohol I had poured on my clothes disguised my scent, and he attacked me as I had hoped he would do. We fought and I won…but it was a close call.”

John nodded, shivering as he remember Sherlock collapsing and the blood spurting for his neck. “How did you manage to come home?”

“Taxi. The cabbie hesitated before allowing me in, but fifty pounds changed his mind.”

John nodded again, and silence fell in the room. John knew he should probably let Sherlock rest, as his body had suffered a great shock, but there was something he absolutely needed to say.

“Sherlock?”

“Yes?”

“About…what you said before you lost your senses…”

“What I said…” Sherlock frowned in confusion, then his eyes widened when he remembered. “Oh. _That_.” He looked away, turning his head to face the wall. “I’m sorry, John,” he said with a flat, clipped tone. “You weren’t supposed to ever hear that. I apologize if I made you uncomfortable. I promise you I’ll never mention it again, nor I’ll try to act on my feelings.”

 _What?!_ John thought with dismay. _He believes I’m unhappy with his declaration of love? Well, of course he believes it. You always go around telling everyone you aren’t gay! Why should he think he is the exception to that rule?_

“Sherlock,” John pressed gently. “Look at me.”

Sherlock turned his head, a look of dread on his face.

John smiled. “Do I look unhappy or uncomfortable?”

Sherlock let his eyes dance over his face and body and shook his head. “No.”

“Do you know why?”

Another head shake.

“Because I love you too, you git.”

“What?” Sherlock sat up straighter, eyes very bright. “But you-”

“-have been feeling attraction to you for several months. I never acted on my feelings because I didn’t want to ruin our friendship if you didn’t return them or – even worse – if you returned them and I discovered mine was only a passing infatuation.” John took Sherlock’s hands in his own and squeezed it, “But now I know you return my feelings and I know mine is not an infatuation. I…was desperate when I thought you were dying. I realized then that I love you. You aren’t just my best friend, you’re my.... everything.”

Sherlock squeezed John’s hand and murmured. “Loving me…it could be dangerous. The only time I tried having a relationship it ended in a disaster.”

John didn’t tell him he knew about it. Instead he smiled and replied, “You know I like danger—and I trust you.” He leant forward until only a few inches separated their faces and whispered, “Please Sherlock, I want to share this with you.”

“Yes,” Sherlock breathed, closing the gap between them.

Their first kiss was brief, gentle, tentative. They shared a smile when they separated, then dived again in each other’s mouth, the following kisses deeper and intense. If John had expected Sherlock to be inexperienced, he soon changed his mind, as the other man knew exactly how to move his lips and use his tongue.

Passion mounted quickly and they grabbed at each other’s back and arms, pulling the other closer as they kissed. Soon their hands moved beneath their clothes and the first touch on Sherlock’s skin – as soft as he had imagined – made John moan as his desire rocketed. God! How could he have ever feared his body would not react well at being with a man? He had yet to see Sherlock naked and he was so hard he was aching.

Sherlock pulled his head away with a groan, his lips red and swollen and his cheeked flushed. “Take them off,” he ordered gesturing at John’s clothes.

John didn’t hesitate. He stood up and quickly discarded his jumper and shirt. By the time he was out of his underwear, Sherlock was already naked and stretched on the bed, his head supported by his bent elbow.

John couldn’t help but stare. His soon to be lover was all creamy, pale skin and long, lean lines, without an ounce of spare fat on him. His rosy length was erect and perfectly proportioned to his body. John’s mouth went dry at the sight. He had never imagined he would ever consider a male body as beautiful, but Sherlock’s certainly was.

“Like what you see?” Sherlock asked with a smirk.

“Oh yes…” John replied, licking his lips.

“Me too. Now come here.”

John smiled at the command, all too happy to comply.

They settled on their sides facing each other, resuming their kissing and exploring. John didn’t know what to touch and caress first, so he let his hands roam at will over Sherlock’s chest, back and buttocks.

As John had fantasized, Sherlock’s long, slightly cool fingers felt like heaven over his heated skin. He discovered some of John’s hot spots and made him moan and arch in pleasure, as John did his best to return the favour.

A light bite on Sherlock’s right nipple made him groan aloud, so John repeated the action. This time the resulting groan sounded more like a growl and when he tried it on the other nipple, John got a definitive, animal like growl as response.

The next instant he found himself flat on his back with Sherlock hovering over him, pupils blown black with want and his mouth open showing his fangs.

His fangs. Sherlock was perched over him, like a predator over its prey and John felt a thrill run along his spine. A thrill of excitement, not fear, and it made his hardness throb.

“Do you wish to continue?” Sherlock asked, his voice even deeper than usual.

“Oh, God, yes,” John replied, making his point by arching his hips against Sherlock’s and then raising his head to bite again his lover’s nipple.

Sherlock snarled and dropped down to lie atop of John, their hard sexes trapped between their pressed bellies. Grabbing at each other’s shoulders, they started moving, tentatively thrusting and rocking. Soon, also aided by the pre-come smearing their bellies, their movements became surer and easier, each of them the perfect counterpoint of the other. The friction on John’s length was exquisite and so was for Sherlock, if the rapt look on his face was an indication.

Pressure mounted inside John, and warm spread from his belly.

“Sherlock!” he cried out, digging his fingers in his lover’s shoulders as he came. Pleasure washed over him, leaving him dizzy with its intensity.

When he came down from his high, John realized Sherlock was still hard and moving against him. He opened his eyes and the expression on his lover’s face took his breath away: he had never seen such a need before. But there was also something else in the lines around Sherlock’s eyes and mouth, in the tension of his body. It was like he was trying to control himself, to hold back even now his hips were practically slamming against his own.

Then, in a flash, John understood why.

He removed his hands from Sherlock’s shoulders and used them to frame the other man’s face, obliging him to look at him.

Sherlock stilled his movements, confused, his harsh breathing filling the room.

“Let it go, Sherlock,” John whispered. “Do it. I’m not afraid. I trust you.” He put all of his belief in his voice and expression, hoping Sherlock would see and feel how sure he was.

Sherlock nodded and John let go of his face. He wrapped his arms around his lover’s back, caressing the taut muscles as the movements resumed. The pace escalated quickly, each thrust punctuated by a growl, and then Sherlock dipped his head and bit down.

John felt a sharp but brief sting in the spot where his neck joined his shoulder. He barely had time to register it that it was gone, replaced by a sensation of warmth, pleasure and wonder.

Sherlock was feeding from him and it felt fantastic. He buried one of his hands in Sherlock’s sweaty curls, and tilted his head on the side, giving him more room.

“Sherlock…” John whispered in awe, and his lover raised his head, his lips red with his blood.

“John…” Sherlock panted back, looking deeply into John’s eyes as he gave an almost violent push with his hips and stilled.

Warmth liquid bathed John’s belly and he watched enraptured as Sherlock threw back his head and groaned, his face contorted in an ecstasy that seemed almost painful as powerful as it was.

A few seconds later, Sherlock collapsed, going limp with his head over John’s chest.

They remained like that for a long moment, gasping for air, covered with sweat, exhausted and exhilarated. Then, John reached out to caress Sherlock’s sweaty back and the younger man raised his head to look at him.

"Wow," John whispered when their eyes locked, a lazy, satisfied smile spreading on his face. "This was really something …"

Sherlock smiled back, quite a spectacle since his fangs were still exposed, and lowered his head to lick the wound on John’s neck.

"Uhm...that's nice," John murmured, "but I don't think I'll be up to more very soon..."

Sherlock chuckled. "Me neither; I'm a vampire, not Superman. This is to make the bleeding stop and the skin heal."

"Oh." John was a bit disappointed he won't be able to wear the mark Sherlock had given him, the mark that symbolized their reciprocal trust, but as a doctor he understood the need to heal the wound quickly.

When Sherlock was done, he pulled back and collapsed on the mattress with a satisfied sigh. John rolled on his side and looked at him, his index finger reaching out to touch the still exposed fangs.

"I like you like this," he murmured, his gaze intent. "It's what you really are, Sherlock, and I feel privileged you allow me to see it."

"No more privileged than I feel because you allowed me to be fully myself with you, John. It is the first time I receive such…unconditional acceptance." A moment of pause, then Sherlock continued. "I trust you know how important you are for me.”

John nodded. “I know, Sherlock. And I trust you know how important you are for me.”

“I do.”

"Good." John felt his eyelids grow heavier and more difficult to keep open. "Do you mind if I crash on you?" he murmured. "I want to talk more, but I'm too exhausted...”

Sherlock smiled, “Of course not. Sleep John, there will be plenty of time later to talk.”

John smiled back, then he rolled on his back and closed his eyes. He felt Sherlock sit up and pull up the blankets to cover both of them. He then reclined again, this time with his head pillowed on John’s chest and one arm around his chest. John tilted his head so he could bury his nose in Sherlock’s soft curls and fell asleep.

 

**Epilogue- Six months Later**

It was quiet evening at Baker Street 221B. Sherlock was sitting in front of the microscope examining and cataloguing fungi spores, while John was sitting in front of his computer, staring with a frown at a page of his blog.

It was the extremely short list of Sherlock’s unsolved cases and the crux of his current problem.

That morning, while he was at Yard to collect some cold case folders Lestrade had promised Sherlock, Donovan and Anderson had asked him why Anthony Majors’ murder wasn’t listed among “the Freak’s failures”.

Sherlock had never appreciated to see his—very rare – unsuccessful cases made public, but John had insisted they made the detective look nicer, as the readers liked to know he wasn’t infallible.

However, Anthony Majors’ murder didn’t belong to the unsolved cases list—it was just the solution couldn’t be made public. John loathed the idea of labelling it a failure to please Donovan and Anderson, especially after what Sherlock had done and risked to catch Majors’ killer.

He shivered as his mind recalled the image of Sherlock almost bleeding to death on the carpet, so John rushed to replace that memory with another one from the same night: the first time he and Sherlock had made love.

John smiled as he thought about his life in the months elapsed since that fateful night.

In the beginning John had expected things to be a bit awkward or hesitant as they settled in the new dynamic of their relationship. He had expected they would need to adapt; instead they had fallen into it with such an ease it was like they had been together for years. They were still best friends, and their relationship adapted from there.

Like before, John continued to complain about Sherlock being a lazy git, and Sherlock kept on teasing him about his blog. In public they were still Sherlock – genius and sociopath with no regards for politeness and other people’s feelings – and John—assistant, back up and handler. People kept thinking they were a couple and John stopped correcting them although, for privacy’s sake, he never confirmed it either.

However, unlike before, now there were secret smiles, brief touches and occasional quick kisses when Lestrade and the others were not looking. Sherlock’s boredom fits were now more manageable when they stuck, as instead of shooting at walls and clamouring for a case, he opted to drag John in the bedroom—or let John drag him there.

John’s smile widened into a grin. As he had fantasized in the past, Sherlock had indeed proved to be as meticulous and observant in bed as he was with his experiments and investigations. He enjoyed studying John’s reactions to his touches and caresses and when he discovered something John’s especially liked, he never forgot to do it again and again.

Sherlock was all growls and snarls during sex, a dominant, fiery predator—and John was his willing prey. They never engaged in penetrative sex as neither of them found it appealing, but they had found several ways to please each other, and their sexual life was extremely satisfying. Then, of course, there was the most intimate aspect of their life: the feeding. The moment in which Sherlock’s mask fell and he allowed himself to be what he really was; a vampire.

Never, even in his wildest dreams John had imagined that getting fed on by a vampire could be the source of such an intense pleasure, both physical and emotional. Sherlock never took more than a mouthful of blood, and the slight sting of the bite was always forgotten in the wake of the pleasure that followed.

After sex, all traces of dominant, fiery Sherlock disappeared, leaving behind an affectionate, gentle man, starved for closeness and affection. John thought it was because Sherlock had not received them since his father’s death, and had silently sworn to do his best to provide his lover with everything he needed.

As for himself, being with Sherlock had given him everything he had dreamed and hoped for as a younger man, and he would never stop to thank his good luck for making them meet.

“I don’t know what you find so amusing in that page,” Sherlock’s annoyed voice said from behind him.

Lost in his musing, John hadn’t noticed his partner leave the kitchen and approach him, so he almost jumped at hearing those words so close to him. He recovered quickly and turned to look at Sherlock’s scowling face.

“I was thinking of something else. Us.”

“Oh.” Sherlock’s expression softened and he put a hand on John’s shoulder, squeezing gently.

John put his own hand over Sherlock’s and said, “This morning Donovan and Anderson complained because I didn’t list Anthony Majors’ murder among your unsolved cases. I know it is unsolved for the NSY and the press, and that you couldn’t ever say the truth, but it would be unfair for you to list it among your failures.”

Sherlock shrugged. “You could create another category: cases solved but still open, and write what happened during Anthony Major’s case, leaving out some details…obviously.”

“Obviously. So I’ll write about your deductions about Majors having been killed because mistaken for a homeless and your discovery there was a serial killer murdering homeless people.”

“Exactly. I can provide you with the names of the other victims. Then you can write the killer disappeared before I could identify him. It is the truth, after all.”

“Uh?” John arched an eyebrow in inquiry.

“Mycroft made the killer’s body disappear, and I was never able to identify him. So yes, that’s the truth.” Sherlock smirked and John smiled back.

He began to type, his fingers flying on the keyboard, eager to let his readers know about another of Sherlock’s successes.

After a few minutes John became aware Sherlock hadn’t moved from his position behind him. He turned his head to take a look and his breath caught in his throat: Sherlock’s fangs were down, stark white against his lips. It was the first time since they got together Sherlock showed them outside of the bedroom during sex, and John was captivated by the sight.

“Not that I’m complaining,” he said, “but why are you like that?”

“I was in my Mind Palace, recalling the events of Majors’ murder and…” Sherlock didn’t complete the line.

“And?” John prodded, curious about the embarrassed look on Sherlock’s face.

“I got _distracted_ by other events happened during that investigation.” Sherlock’s cheeks were now flushed.

“You mean you got horny thinking about our first time,” John translated with a grin.

He turned back to face the desk and said, “You know, you have distracted me too.” He saved the update to his blog and switched off the computer. Then faced Sherlock again and continued, “I think we should retire and distract each other senseless.”

Sherlock smiled, the fangs giving him a strange expression, and reached out with his hand. John took it and stood up. They kissed, Sherlock being careful not to hurt him with his fangs and John daringly running his tongue over the sharp points.

Then they separated walked hand in hand toward Sherlock’s bedroom—now their bedroom.

Once inside, John closed the door shutting the world outside, and gave all of himself to the extraordinary man who was Sherlock Holmes, detective, vampire and the love of his life.

The End


End file.
